My new threat

I'm going to get a pick-up truck and some rope and drag your ass to the airport.

Much to my dismay...

... it seems that the break-up is the real deal, peeps. What a cocksucker... I mean, inept cocksucker. I've tried not to let this affect Juk's visit, but I haven't been very successful. Can't help it... am quite sad.

I'm going to the Depeche Mode concert tomorrow which will perfectly match my adolescent melancholy. So dependable, Depeche...

Oooh! Another appropriate lyric!

This time, courtesy of Feist:

The saddest part
Of a broken heart
Isn't the ending
So much as the start.

Très vrai. Yes, I feel cheesy, but isn't love the cheesiest thing ever? Gorgonzolove, I say.

Where's Richard Smith?

I feel strange. Sad, angry and happy. If the break-up is for real, there will be a part of me that is relieved, somehow. Another part of me, however, will be very unhappy.

I'm listening to Final Fantasy's 'Has a Good Home' album, which kind of became me and the Boyf's soundtrack over the past few months and it is making me feel weird. At the moment, it feels as though it is the only connection to him that I have. I have this romantic idea that he is doing the same. I know that Juk's visit is distracting me from the situation and when he leaves, I think I will feel worse than I currently do. It is amazing how afairs of the heart are invariably cliché. A variation of this situation has been happening daily around the world for all of time. That's all fine and makes me feel connected to the human race, but I'm talking about me and not an abstraction. I'm torn, like Natalie Imbruglia... I want to call and I don't... I want to see him and I don't...

Lyric from Final Fantasy:

It took two years to win my heart
And two words to break it
[...]
They say heartbreak is good for the skin
But all that it's helped is my drinking.

And:

I could fill up the lake
With all the things I didn't say
Had a good run, anyway

Yeah... I know.

Well, that's disappointing and devastating

The Boyf and I are no longer, it seems. Trying to digest this... I'm pissed off.

I'm the nouveau Mr. Rogers... who knew?

The Boyf is already displaying jealousy at Juk's (friend from Japan) visit and he doesn't even land for 3 hours. I can't handle childishness of that sort. If he feels awkward, we can discuss it and I'm sure his feelings would defuse once he meets Juk. Having tantrums and seriously sprouting phrases like "So I guess I'm never going to see you while your boyfriend is here" is not going to win him many points. Perhaps he should at some level consider being happy that I'm happy to see a friend I haven't in ages instead of trying desperately to fit into a pair of Pampers.

New work trend

We've noticed that a surprising number of people are quite emotionally vacant at work, which is often annoying. They have a capacity to separate their "business side" from their "social side" so definitively, that they begin to seem like two different people. Since we are most accustomed to seeing them in a work environment, when they become social it feels quite awkward and insincere. After one of these rare social encounters, they invariably go right back to business mode without missing a beat. In tribute to their programmed nature, when one of these types enters the office I have taken to softly singing: "Domo arigato (insert name here) Roboto".

The City Humanized

ReadingToronto's guest editor, Benny Nemerofsky Ramsay, has made some excellent entries this week. They all fall under the umbrella of 'Memory Maps' with both text and illustration. The text is poignant and moving in relating personal experiences without being either tawdry or sentimental. The illustrations vividly depict how a city's geography becomes highly personal and charged, bringing an internal landscape to the real world. This is how our cities become living entities and active agents in our lives and memories. I really recommend checking it out as well as the artist's own site. The trailer he did for the Stuttgarter Filmwinter is a personal favourite.

Gimme those wings, sister

There's an Always Pantyliners (pad, MaxiPad...? what's the correct term?) commercial that seems to obviously connote something sexual. Either that or the copywriter is a radical asexual activist or a magically literate boulder. Judge for yourselves: "If you're going to sit on it all day, it has to be comfortable!". All day?! How I admire her, yet resent the competition... bitch.

Who is this lucky girl? If she's uncomfortable, I can take over a shift(s)... and discomfort can be rewarding so I won't complain- within reason. However, if this is strictly refering to menstruation, I think that developing an instant vagina would seriously traumatize me and I have no interest.

Um...

I just went to the convenience store for smokes and saw something that could be strange...

I have always thought this particular clerk is a bit off, so I may be assuming this was weird and I don't have a cat so I may be missing something. Here goes... I was waiting at the counter for about 3 minutes while he seemed to be playing with his cat. He then silently approached me clutching a clump of cat fur in his hand and expressionlessly showed it to me. Then, he took his lighter and burnt it. It stank. He still said nothing. Is that normal?

He often acts strange. He will mumble-sing-along very loudly to chessy classic rock songs in a thick Korean accent and will then ask me what the lyrics are, what they mean, who the band is and when the song was recorded. Another time, he asked to touch my hair.

Clearly, this has become my favourite corner store in Toronto.

How adorable is this?

This little nerd is too cute for words... especially his feet.

Simple pleasures...

Last night, I unexpectedly went out with the Boyf. I thought it may be a bad idea, but I was wrong. We had three of the best hours we've had in a very long time.

For whatever reason, he was very lovey all day... which was great, because I was getting no love in this hell-house. I picked him up in a cab to head downtown. Initially, he wanted to go to Church Street so that we could make out in peace, but I would have none of that and decided to go to Ciao Edie and pretend we were lesbians. The Boyf is not the most affectionate person in the world, but last night, he was practically dry-humping me in the cab. It was such a nice change to go from hysteria and loneliness (boo hoo, Genet) to sitting in a cab, holding hands with someone I love and kissing incessantly. The entire night was actually quite affectionate which was exactly what I needed. The Boyf is often uncomfortable displaying man-love in public, but this was not a problem tonight at all... in fact, I had to tone him down, especially when he was (convincingly) simulating a blow in the cab... the driver looked uncomfortable yet intrigued, but I had no patience to deal with his curiosity and/or disgust, so that was that.

We hung out at Ciao's for a while... I reminisced with the bartender about a now-defunct dyke bar called Shag that I loved and had a couple of martinis. My favourite part of the night though was when the Boyf and I were sitting on the steps of the Latvian/Lithuanian/Baltic/Whatever Centre, cuddling and asking passers-by which 'Facts of Life' character we most resemble (I think the Boyf is a perfect stand-in for Mrs. Garrett)... I then bought him a glow wand thing which he used to chase people with like a gay wizard. I felt like a teenage bimbo and I loved it. The martinis then hit the Boyf very hard. When we got to his place, he fell down the stairs and then, mysteriously, fell up the stairs as well...? I put him to bed, vaguely admired his flaccid penis, fed the dog and hopped into a cab.

Can every night be like this? I don't ask for much, peeps.

Lucky you

There will be no tidbits of information or entries about artists that intrigue me today. Today is all about my daily life and may consequentially be dull. I don't care.

I have unhealthily come to see myself as something of a martyr. Perhaps not Biblically, but at least Shakespearian. After my father's death (which was totally out of left-field), my life obviously changed drastically. I can deal with that. What has evolved since, however, is absurd and baffling. Despite the fact that I'm of Greek heritage and we did invent theatre, I don't think that means I have to live it daily. My sister has totally dropped out of the picture leaving me to care for my mother who is a handful in herself- always was, but now she's worthy of Broadway. The sister (let's call her... Tenis) has recently gotten engaged which is amazing for her and makes me happy. The fiancé (aka Beyoncé) is nice, whatever... wouldn't fuck him, but don't have to. He lives in the States, so Tenis has spent every weekend there since my father's death, with few exceptions. The Boyf, therefore, stays with me and mom (Yoda) = FUN! I am 28 and live at home. Deal- the food is awesome. Much like a bad episode of The Love Boat, my sister will make guest appearances at the house. Yes, she may live here, but it's hard to tell. Oh, and she's my boss. And she is so Type-A that I swear she shits according to her DayRunner™.

Anyhow... I have been left to look after an unstable 60-something totally dependant widow and a house on my own. Tenis will be here from time to time (ie: today) but she will not attempt to relieve me at all. Instead, she goes absolutely haywire because her "Everyday Cooking magazines are in the wrong order" and demands to know who could have committed such a heinous act. This causes Yoda to lose it. Then they both yelp for me like wounded banshees in the hope that I will solve the bizarre conflict. What? I know. This is followed by a sermon courtesy of Tenis about wedding invitations and their infinite complexities... you would think she was talking about decoding the genome (I know, she's excited, great... I just want to have silence for a moment). This bullshit sequence of events happens regularly and doesn't even skim the air above the surface. Peeps, I'm fucking tired. If karma is for real, I'm going to be living in the Taj Mahal surrounded by 1,000 up-for-it roughneck faggots, eating pork in mustard sauce, drinking mimosas and listening to Stereolab for eternity.

Martyrdom may have its advantages after all...

Maudlin Moments with Genet, on Rogers Cable 10, CATCH IT! Tuesdays @ 3pm

Just spoke to Sausage, Psychic-Dumb-Dumb (PDD) and then JR. Considering that I've had a petty yet emotionally stressful week of relationship doubts, it is incredibly nice to have a casual, comfortable conversation. And I mean nice as in pleasant, not in any sarcastic way. It's a word that has been abused but is very uselful and apt. We (well, I at least), take that quality of friendships for granted sometimes because it is so inobtrusive and dependable... But seriously, how healthy and sane and yourself does it make you feel after drama and uncertainty to speak to someone with ease and innate understanding... and with someone who can tell you you're being an ass without it becoming Wagnerian? It's a fargin' godesnd. For all their benefits (and there are many) relationships can be hard, draining and confusing and make friendships seem even more life-saving than you know them to be. So, Sausage, PDD, JR and everyone else who is a friend to this quasi-psychopathic Greek-Canadian homosexual wannabe 1920s Parisian whore, I love you.

Dumb but funny joke

Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing.

He concludes by saying: "Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed."

"OH NO!" the President exclaims. "That's terrible!"
His staff sits stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the President sits, head in hands.

Finally, the President looks up and asks, "How many is a brazillion?"

Snow

Snow is pretty, but I went to get a coffee after lunch with Zoulpy and Yaourti (Zoulpy's sister and fellow co-worker) and we all thought we were going to die. Every year I am shocked that air could feel as cold as it does come November... and then it just gets worse and worse. I seriously need a hobby to help me avoid the winter blahs... Suggestions?

The Quebec City Healing Vision

Shortly after my father died this spring and at the end of my mental rope, I took a break to Quebec City. This turned out to be very helpful to me and I knew that the trip was a success when I had the following vision (this is a favourite of JR)...

It all starts off in a shoe store. For some reason, the population of Quebec City has come to see me as a sort of Lord Durham- a hated anglo. In the shoe store, I ask to try on a nice pair of casual shoes. My own shoes are promptly taken off my feet and burnt and I have a hideous pair of pink stilettos shoved on. I am then pushed out the door to the employees glee.

(For those of you who may not know, walking in Quebec City is a challenge at the best of times, what with the hills, the cobblestones and horse dung...)

I'm traumatized and walking through the OId City when I come upon an elementary school on recess. The children see me and stop in their tracks, their faces becoming pale... basketballs drop, skipping ropes fall to the ground. In unison, the children all stare blankly at me and start morbidly chanting "Le Québec aux Québécois" with fists in the air. I'm frightened and try to run away, but the stilettos get caught in a cobblestone. I fall and get knocked out.

When I come to, I am invited onto a calèche. I enter, sobbing and scarred but am draped in furs trapped by husky coureurs de bois. For hours, I cry and smoke in the carriage. Many times, the driver tries to ask me to descend, but each time I mutter almost drunkenly, "encore une fois" and lazily throw money at him. The horse, either overwhelmed by, or annoyed with, my emotions decides to bolt. He gallops straight for the Museum of Civilization. The calèche smashes through the window of the museum and crashes into an empty display case. The calèche, complete with horse, driver and myself remain in the display for posterity, newly named "The Exhibit of Human Sadness".

After this, I knew I was on the road to recovery. Finally, I realized that my emotions were taking over way too much of my life... And I laughed intensely for the first time in ages. So thank you, Quebec City. Beaucoup. No more Québec talk for a while...

Romeo + Juliet for the 21st Century Student

Apparently, it goes like this:

FeudTween 2hses- Montague&Capulet. RomeoMfalls_<3w/_JulietC@mary Secretly Bt R kils J's Coz &&is banishd. J fakes Death. As Part of Plan2b-w/R Bt_leter Bt It Nvr Reachs Him. Evry1confuzd-bothLuvrs kil Emselves

Although it does demonstrate some ingenuity, it somehow seems to miss the point, methinks...

My reply: ThtsFkd^. BtClvr

Read about it here.

Nemesis of the Week: The Lilydale SpokesMonster

This champ is the spokesmodel for Lilydale, some poultry cartel from Alberta. He's a chef that is obsessed with Lilydale Farms (especially their turkey). He's a caricature of the French, as evidenced by the fact that he's a chef, he gesticulates wildly, contorts his face to the point of injury and has the requisite insanely strong Gallic accent. He makes me sick. Between his bizarre head movements and his creepy and child-like fingers (which always seem to have a cameo close-up) I seriously want to throw my TV at someone. You can catch his ads here. I can't believe anyone would marry this fucker, so take his claims of having a "family" in the commercial as purely the invention of some ad guy in Edmonton. If this guy really is French, I hope the beurs torched his car or bike or spatula... something that would upset him...

Oh, and a word of warning... When he raises his eyes to the heavens while sniffing one of his delicacies and exclaims "Ah, so gooooooooooooood!" in a totally gutteral voice, you will cry.

I need coffee more than I thought

Last night, I watched a doc about coffee and a certain fact intrigued me. Pre-coffee Europe was a thoroughly alcoholic place. The average Frenchman drank 7-8 litres of wine a day and a substantial amount of pure alcohol- and their consumption lagged behind their Germanic neighbours. With the popularization of the coffeehouse, Europeans had a non-intoxicating beverage to consume in a social setting. Some historians attribute the acceleration of social and political discourse in part to this development since people could carry on a sober conversation.

What does this say about my life?

Holy shit, I'm tired

I haven't slept all that well for the past week and last night I was up doing ridiculous things to help my mother... don't ask, I'll scream, barf, get a perm and smash my body against walls. The result is that I am totally 100% fat-n-gay. Even the titilating news that a coke-whore homo won the PQ leadership is doing nothing for me. OK, maybe it is. In my younger days, I was a separatist sympathizer, which probably had more to do with my dogmatic "root for the underdog" mentality more than anything. I still can understand the emotional argument for secession but don't think it's feasible. Anyhow, the Québécois are in many ways a cool lot. Case in point, Boisclair's leadership win. I'm not sure if he would have succeeded so easily in another province... mind you, the PQ is largely made up of 1960s idealists, socialist, intellectuals and people from Chicoutimi-Jonquière. Whatever. I still think it's cool that someone can be taken seriously based on their ideas/character rather than sensationalized trivia about their choice in nightlife.

Guest Blog by Konstantinos Kavafis

Genet has nothing to say today, so the turn of the century (20th, that is) Alexandrian-Greek homosexual poet Konstantinos Kavafis* will entertain you with three of his poems. He's dead (since 1933), so show some respect. And they aren't that long, so just read them and relax.

* The popular spelling of his name is the latinized Constantine Cavafy. Being of Greek heritage, that spelling looks and sounds wrong to me, so I instead prefer to transliterate from the Greek as is becoming more common now.

In Despair

He has lost him completely. And now he is seeking
on the lips of every new lover
the lips of his beloved; in the embrace
of every new lover he seeks to be deluded
that he is the same lad, that it it to him he is yielding.

He has lost him completely, as if he had never been at all.
For he wanted -- so he said -- he wanted to be saved
from the stigmatized, the sick sensual delight;
from the stigmatized, sensual delight of shame.
There was still time -- as he said -- to be saved.

He has lost him completely, as if he had never been at all.
In his imagination, in his delusions,
on the lips of others it is his lips he is seeking;
he is longing to feel again the love he has known.

Waiting for the Barbarians

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

The barbarians are due here today.
Why isn't anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?

Because the barbarians are coming today.
What laws can the senators make now?
Once the barbarians are here, they'll do the legislating.
Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting at the city's main gate
on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
replete with titles, with imposing names.
Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and things like that dazzle the barbarians.
Why don't our distinguished orators come forward as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and they're bored by rhetoric and public speaking.
Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people's faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?

Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
And some who have just returned from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.
And now, what's going to happen to us without barbarians?
They were, those people, a kind of solution.

As Much As You Can

Even if you can't shape your life the way you want,
at least try as much as you can
not to degrade it
by too much contact with the world,
by too much activity and talk.
Do not degrade it by dragging it along,
taking it around and exposing it so often
to the daily silliness
of social relations and parties,
until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.

Quote of the Day

"What's mines is mines and what's yours is mines... this whole city is mines."
- 50 Cent

This is all you get today

The blog is going to have to take a break today. I'm a busy boy.

RBC: Royal Bimbo Complications

I went to the bank today to apply for a line-of-credit or loan or something and was helped by a practically blind slo-mo weirdo. It took her twelve hours to enter my name in the computer and she spelt it totally wrong. It would be like Genet being spelt as 6hw243slKájagu. A family friend was going to co-sign for me but she had to open an account and all that crap. Anyhow, in 24-48 hours, I will find out if I can put the escape plan off for a little while longer. Wish me luck, peeps.

One sort of down, one to go...

I can safely say that the Boyf's birthday weekend did not go down as I had hoped. After Saturday's argument I wanted to poo all over him. Then Sunday came and I felt guilty and confused as to my weird behaviour and tried to give it another go. He was tired and boring, so we didn't really do much. It was OK, but nothing special. I feel like I failed though it's nothing traumatic and we're going to try (again) tomorrow night and hope that it works out. I felt very distant from him the past couple of days and it ain't going away.

Earlier on Sunday, my mom went all psychopathic widow on me and totally freaked me out. Her b-day/breakdown is tonight... I wonder what surprises the fates have in store for me!

Trans-Atlantic Funny

Had an argument with the Boyf last night. Stormed out. It's his birthday today. Not sure what to do. Don't want to talk about it.

In other news, I spoke to Sausage- who now lives in Greece- today. We went there on holiday in 2002, he loved it and is teaching English in Athens now. I miss him to a stupid degree... Anyhow, we both have a minor obsession with Anna Vissi who is Greece's biggest pop star. She's 45, looks awesome, does the Euro-dance thing but also has many ballads and tsiftedelia (threw you off, eh... that's Greek for Middle-Eastern influenced dance music). And while I am hardly a fan of the pop-star spectacle, she is seriously impressive live. She is the subject of much interest in Greece and many rumours have swirled around her, including a very dubious one about her fetish for having razors inserted into her vagina. That has nothing to do with this story, though.

While on the phone, Sausage was watching Anna being interviewed on Greece's version of MuchMusic/MTV. For whatever reason, European TV is bizarre and random (I'm sure this subject is ripe for a PhD thesis) and this interview was no different. Since Sausage doesn't understand Greek as a native speaker, he couldn't fully explain the goings-on but the interviewer suddenly blind-folded Anna. (Aside: could you picture Larry King blindfolding Celine Dion? The results would be spectacular.). Not-so-long story short, Anna is casually blindfolded on national TV and her immediate response is to start singing 'I Just Called To Say I Love You' by Stevie Wonder. That is sheer brilliance in my view. I love her even more.

That punchline took far to long to arrive at.

It's decided then

The Boyf's birthday dinner dilemna is over. His palate is bland and he likes steak and/or lobster. Problem: I can't handle being in a geriatric boy's club steakhouse. Compromise: The House of Chan. It's a steakhouse masquerading as a Chinese restaurant, or vice-versa. Apparently the food is really good. Regardless, I really don't want to think about this anymore, so it's settled. If he doesn't like it, he can eat his arm(s).

I love fall, but...

... my skin gets super dry and all crazy. My face looks like a 3 year old suffering from ADD went ape-shit with a red crayon. This does not make me very happy. Even my stubble isn't managing to camouflage it. I've practically mainlined moisturizer to no avail. At moments like these, the idea of wearing a burqa is very appealing.

Weekend Tip... Plus, I Can't Stop Posting Today

I have a thing for Soviet art. One of my favourite artifacts from the Cold-War Era is a film called 'I Am Cuba', which is screening at the Cinematheque. There is also an article about it in the Globe and Mail today. It is a visually stunning film which makes the propaganda element that much stranger somehow. Also, it's a Soviet take on Cuba, two pretty disparate cultures I'd say. See it if you can.

The Elvis We Never Knew

Elvis Stojko has ditched the sequins in favour for... well, not sequins. He came in 2nd at a Kung Fu tournament. Good work there, tough guy. Why is this hilarious?

Birthdays are for 5 year olds

It's the Boyf's birthday on Sunday. It's my mother's birthday on Monday. Monday would have also been my parent's wedding anniversary. Monday will therefore be an emotional disaster. I haven't planned anything at all for the Boyf's birthday as it snuck up on me and I'm sure he's expecting some sort of extravaganza. Or a surprise, like a trip to Barcelona... SURPRISE... HERE'S A ONE-WAY BUS TICKET TO SARNIA AND A BOX OF KLEENEX! Can someone come to my office and punch me into a 4-day coma? Please?

If everything is in my genes, mine better be a nice pair of Diesel's with a bit of a flare

I've already gone on a small tirade about scientific studies, so I'll keep this one short. In essence, I am incredibly tired of these studies coming out proclaiming that every aspect of our existence is determined by our genes. (I think JR may have touched upon this in one of his posts). Take this one, for example (and note the caveman photo... classic). If I am not an active agent in my own life, then shoot me now. While I'm not sure what "causes" homosexuality (what an obnoxious way to pose the question... "cause"... like what "causes" cancer... ew), I would be just as comfortable if for some people it was a choice rather than a biological determination. Telling me that every aspect of my personality is related to a hunter-gatherer 20,000 years ago but my personal history only has a moderate effect makes me want to disprove Darwin. I think the genetics thing has been taken a bit too far... Plus, shouldn't they be researching cures to disease rather than studying if Peggy Sue is lonely or not? Peggy Sue, get a backbone or shut up.

'The Last Supper' - Damien Hirst

These three images are from a series of prints done by Damien Hirst entitled 'The Last Supper'. I've been strangely attracted to this series for a while, both aesthetically and conceptually. I find them both funny and disturbing. Apart from having a fetish for graphic art, I think the familiarity of the images works to the advantage of interpretation. The simplicity of these prints belies some interesting questions they pose about mortality, existence, pleasure, commodification, even the politics of the phamaceutical industry.

Why do I bring this up today, you ask? I stumbled into them on the net, for one. But after seeing the pathetic footage of Paris Hilton and her new boyfriend (what is it with her and Greeks lately?) after their car accident, this seemed to perfectly capture how vapid, conformist and manufactured much of our culture has become.

How could you do this to me?

Hormonster has become enormous. So enormous in fact, that she has no choice but to leave work for a while.

That's right, she's having a baby! Next month! I find this all very exciting because a) I love Hormonster to death and b) this is the first time I really care about a person that I know who has gotten pregnant. I've even caught myself checking out baby stuff when I walk by it. Educational toys are my forté, but I also love tack, so this kid will be getting a variety of gifts from Uncle Mojen (Hormonster's formal name for me). I'm going to totally be the cool uncle... you know, the fun gay one that the little one will run away to when mom and dad are being nerds.

Anyhow, this all means that tomorrow is Hormonster's last day. (Cue tears). I can't believe she's abandoning me like this... I should have known she would leave me like everyone else does... I know I will see her frequently to visit the baby and bring her CDs to keep her up-to-date with music and all, but we've seen each other daily for ages and it will be very weird to have that change. For all her repulsive habits, cruelty and abysmal intellect, I love her tons. I'm going to miss her and that sucks. But I am stupidly happy for her, her husband and the lucky little girl that's going to pop out of her very soon.

Once again, I get the shit end of the stick. Thanks, Hormonster. Selfish bitch.

Extreme Makeover: Special Genet Edition

I am often plagued by random and surreal visions which amuse me very much. Usually I keep them to myself or share them with a select group of people who I think will appreciate them and at some level understand their underlying meaning. I had one today...

The parking lot attendant at our office building is a semi-toothless man named Abraham. We have re-named him Abrahamster because he has the tooth thing going on, he's pudgy and strangely cute. The poor guy spends his entire day in a makeshift booth outside looking very bored. Occasionally, you can hear the strains of Eastern music coming from his HQ as he sings to try and keep himself awake.

Today, I pictured an over-enthusiastic crew of WASP renovators suddenly arriving and making over his booth. All they would know is that this man's name is Abrahamster, failing to realize it is a nickname. In their complete ignorance and superficiality they decide to run with the hamster theme to make Abrahamster's work environment 'fun', when really all wants to do is practise medicine like he used to back home.

The next day, we arrive to see an enormous hamster running wheel, a newspaper carpet and woodchips, a barrel of popcorn, a salt lick, bells hung from the ceiling and an elaborate straw mechanism for water. In the corner, looking absolutely cramped, baffled and embarrassed, Abraham tries to adapt to this "new normal" and regrets ever immigrating to Canada. The Extreme Makeover crew, however, feel totally self-satisfied and noble.

"With Golwing Hearts We See Them Rise"

One of the few actually good music mags, Under the Radar, has a 35-page spread about the current Canadian indie invasion. Reading it, you really do get the sense that, yes, this country is producing some damn fine music. There are some omissions (The Cansecos, Polmo Polpo, SS Cardiacs, Great Lakes Swimmers, Jake Fairley and The Republic of Safety, come to mind) and I would have liked some bands to have had more coverage. But that really is asking to much and as a primer, it's an interesting read.

Mops + Ghosts

The cleaning woman at the office is a sweet Filipino lady. Her whole family participates in the cleaning of several offices, but truth be told, their cleaning is superficial at best. All one guy does is very lethargically wipe the wall as he walks by it. It's quite funny sometimes, but annoying at others. For example, the mop they use often smells like barf and when this was pointed out to them, they just giggled and continued mopping.

Anyhow, the leader of the group, the aforementioned sweet woman (we'll call her Imelda) is the last to leave. One day I was at the office late and she was finishing up. Imelda approached me with a knowing expression and whispered "Your father was here last night. He was playing games. He turned light (sic) on". [For those who don't know, my father died earlier this year and he used to work with me]. I tried not to laugh and just nodded. She then just cryptically said "You know". No, I don't. As she was leaving, I couldn't help but think the following:

1] Why didn't he help them do a better cleaning job?
2] My father is apparently a very cliché ghost
3] If he visits Imelda rather than me, I feel totally betrayed
4] Was Imelda high?

Quiz #1

CONFESSION: I have always wanted to be a whirling dervish. Is it because:

[A] I like to be in a trance-like state
[B] I want to commune with Allah
[C] spinning is disorienting and I like being lost/confused
[D] the skirts look cool whilst one spins

The truth is, I know not. I think we can safely assume that B is not really an option.

Mantra: Always 'Save to Drafts'

For the past two years or so, I have gotten into the satisfying yet dangerous hobby of writing hate e-mails. Let me explain... The sequence of events usually goes like this: spend the evening with the Boyf… drink too much/am suffering from fatigue… get home.... “remember” something about the evening which triggers a memory of something in the past the Boyf did that pissed me off… become irate… turn computer on… write a scathing e-mail to the Boyf declaring our break-up… re-read e-mail… try to remember why I’m angry… fail to remember… Reason gently tweaks my nipples… save e-mail to ‘Drafts’ folder… go to bed.

To date, I have avoided accidentally sending these e-mails to their intended recipient. While I do like living on the edge, this to me is a most risky habit. I rarely look over these e-mails again, but the other night I thought it would be fun to do so. One of them said: “If Lake Ontario was full of Pepto Bismol and I drank the whole fucking thing you would still make me nauseous”. These hate e-mails are in no way restricted to the Boyf. Family members are my second favourite one-way pen-pals. I thought that somehow this reeked of passive-aggressiveness, but since I’m the only one that knows they exist, I think I can just call this activity cathartic. If they ever did receive one, I would seriously have to enable the parental controls on my computer and ignore my feelings of guilt and panic to somehow convince them that I had a severe lapse in judgement and was trying to somehow be "funny".

Seriously, though, I have to be more careful. I love the Boyf too much to accidentally confuse/hurt him and I can't rely on Reason tweaking my nipples all the time.

Cristina is My 80s Idol

Cristina Monet is an almost too cool individual. I learned about her earlier this year and I am envious of her and totally intrigued.

A little bit about this alternate-universe superstar:

• disco/mutant-disco/disco-punk/New Wave singer who referred to her work as 'Brechtian pastiche'
• was theatre critic for the Village Voice
• won the history and literature prizes in her sophomore year at Harvard
• writes for the London Times Literary Supplement
• she was a model and theatre actress
• described her music as "mostly New Wave working class. Otherwise it would be camp affluence nostalgic--Thirties film scores--undercut by ironic dissonance."
• came from wealth (the early 80s get Cristina as a wealthy scenester and we have Paris Hilton... What happened?)
• her likes include: reading, pear-shaped diamonds, MDA, valium, Balzac and 'I Love Lucy'
• sang like a jaded Euro-bimbo on one song and then like Marilyn Monroe on the next
• she does a great latin-disco cover of 'La Poupée Qui Fait Non'
• does a rendition of "Ballad of Immoral Earnings" from Threepenny Opera
• on motherhood, married life and a move to Texas(!): "I felt like Madame Bovary of the Freeway."

Here's a sampling of her lyrics (more can be found here):

What's a Girl To Do?

My life is in a turmoil
My thighs are black and blue
My sheets are stained, so is my brain
What's a girl to do?
What's a girl to do?

I've passed out with a novel
Or a needle in my hand
I've passed out with a ragdoll
And I've passed out with a man...

I say my three Hail Marys
I daily paint my face
My friends decay around me
And I view them with distaste...

My life is in a turmoil
My thighs are black and blue
My sheets are stained, so is my brain
What's a girl to do?
What's a girl to do?

Well some girls have a mission
And some girls have their work
Some marry with precision
And some just dish the dirt...

And once I had a lover
And I once had a profession
And once I laughed at nothing
And they called it a depression...

I've tried dancing up and down
The wrong side of the track
And I've walked on the right side
Or just lain here on my back...

So I think I'll quit while I'm behind
Now that I'm twenty-two
My sheets are stained, so is my brain
What's a girl to do?

Genet is currently listening to...

I forgot how much I love this album.

Jem and the Homosexual Child

The Boyf is staying with me. The poor thing hasn't been able to sleep for days because of his pain, but he dozed off a while ago and is now all adorable and sleeping, making those vaguely snoring sounds that I find painfully sweet. I'm glad that he's resting, but I am now very bored. Not wanting to disturb his sleep, I've decided to let him have the couch-bed tonight... I'm so altruistic that I can't believe I'm human. I must be a formerly beached yet hghly adaptive dolphin.

I was talking to a friend today who related a childhood story that was both embarassing and ridiculously hysterical. Growing up, he was obsessed with 'Jem and the Holograms', a show in which the main character (Jem) had a double-life that was aided by a sophisticated computer called Synergy. Jem was the rock star and her alter-ego was Jerrica Benton.

My friend had a neighbour who always wanted to play with him, but Sausage (the friend) was deeply uninterested. One day, he decided to scare the neighbour away or at least confuse him. Taking a page from Jem, when the neighbour came a-knocking, Sausage pretended to be a cousin visiting from England, complete with accent. He told the neighbour that Sausage was upstairs and was just getting out of the shower. Sausage went upstairs, changed clothes and hairstyles and then went to the door to tell the neighbour they couldn't play because his cousin was visiting and he promised to play with him. He was convinced that this ploy worked, but 20 years later he's not sure.

I find it so appropriate that a little gay boy in the late-80s would adopt a seperate persona inspired by a glamorous animated rock-star diva. Whether it worked or not is totally irrelevant.

Joanne Kates, I agree

Two friends of mine opened a restaurant earlier this year called Tabule. I was concerned that I may have to feign enjoyment but instead gorged myself on virtually the entire menu. If you like Middle Eastern food, you'll enjoy it. Notorious food scribe Joanne Kates gave it a glowing review in today's Globe and Mail... that is rare for her. So, to my pals I say: Congrats!

Genet = Excited

It has just been confirmed that a very good friend of mine is coming to visit from Japan! I haven't seen him in 7 years, so I forsee debauchery, late night conversations and getting fired from work- unlikely as I am Nepotism Boy! Anyhow, I am looking forward to this beaucoup. The only slight concern is that the Boyf will have some jealous moments because Juk (the friend) will be staying with me for 10 days. However, I'm not too worried as I'm sure they'll get along... unlike the Boyf and FF, the sobbing monster.

Has this blog been co-opted by a 12 year old girl? Why has it suddenly become my diary? And why would you care if my friend came to visit? I need to change topics...

Paging Dr. Freud

I just got back to work from taking the Boyf to the hospital. He has kidney stones and called me this morning saying "I'm making sounds I never thought I could" to describe his pain. Obviously, I flee the office and cab it over to his place.

When I get there, the Boyf informs me that he had taken a Tylenol 3 he had from a previous tooth-ache incident and the pain has subsided but he still needed to get to the hospital. Seeing him in pain and vulnerable was simultaneously heart-breaking and a turn-on.

While waiting for the triage nurse, he was cracking jokes, which initially put me at ease about his physical state. Then the jokes kept coming. Suddenly, I wished that I had a melodramatic boyfriend that would make my rescue effort seem more heroic than it was. How I managed to turn his kidney stones into something about me is a triumph of narcissism. Thankfully, it will be short lived... only to be sporadically followed by similar feelings while I'm nursing him back to health.

Corporate Instructional Art

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the owners of our office building for reminding me how to urinate. Not only had I mysteriously forgotten after wielding a penis for 28 years, but I deeply appreciate the quality of this illustration above in sparking the memory. Furthermore, I now know that in order to control the apparently 87 streams of urine flowing from my member, I only need to hold my penis and show it who's boss. So to sum it up, boys: Hold your dick while peeing... Do not stretch your back and grasp the wall. And if peeing with a friend, remember that 'crossing swords' will invariably result in a pee-soaked floor (not on illustration, but is in my version).

Incidentally, I haven't seen a tub in the office restroom, so calling it a bathroom is really wrong and weird. And what's with "protocol"? I think "etiquette" would have sufficed.

When I mentioned this poster to a female friend, she asked if there was one in the women's restroom as well. I'm gay, not transgendered or intersex... I don't know. Anyhow, she went on to say that women are usually more germaphobic than men and as a consequence go to some lengths to avoid encountering germs. For example, hovering over the toilet or making toilet paper toilet covers. The irony she said is that this often results in bad aim, pee all over the place and urine soaked paper toilet covers strewn about, making many a women's restroom (especially in bars) quite unsanitary. I was shocked.

The World is Fucked - Exhibit 5,896,329

What?! Why?! Who?!

This is so stupid it hurts my hair.

Welcome to Toronto - brought to you by Molson, Chuck E Cheese, Ford, Dell, Scotiabank and Sephora

Some brilliant politicos at City Hall are actually contemplating selling the naming rights of Nathan Phillips Square to pay for its maintenance. It is arguably the most successful public space in the city and having it named 'General Motors Square' (as was actually presented as a possibility) takes away the sense that it belongs to the city. Not to mention it abandons honouring Nathan Phillips. Plus, how unromantic would that be... Imagine Trafalgar Square renamed Virgin Atlantic Square? Or Place de la Concorde becoming Place du Crédit Lyonnais? Some things should be sacred... or at least not for sale. Toronto has too little history to pimp out its few iconic spaces.

The truth about my work, Part 2

I work at a commercial production company and our fundamental integration with the advertising industry can sometimes be troubling for me. There are days that you would swear our office has been transformed into some hectic ER, with people stressing over the most trivial of matters. You often get the urge to slap them and remind them that no, they are not saving lives, but trying to sell Doritos to obese commuters. Doritos that will eventually kill them in an orange orgy of trans-fats and artificial flavourings.

This makes me cynical and wary of watching ads sometimes. Then there are moments when an ad can be quite rewarding and all my protestations temporarily melt away. Case in point, this Tetley ad. It's simple and funny. However, the clincher for me is the performances... the two women make me laugh lots. Enjoy.

Babylon. Babble On. Bored.

Not sure if I'm still hungover from Saturday or if the evil residue of Halloween has tainted me but I am embarrassingly lethargic and unispired today. Just sitting and staring is about as active as I feel like getting. I've even caught myself sitting and staring with my mouth agape like a stunned bimbo.

The only thing I'm looking forward to today is the release of the Caribou/Manitoba DVD. It compiles all the visuals from his concerts from the past two years. I remember seeing his show at Lee's Palace and was totally mesmerized by said visuals and I want to see them again.

Last night, I watched a bit of Dead Like Me, a series which I quite enjoyed but which got abruptly cancelled. One of the characters said something to the effect that there are only a finite number of personalities within the human population. For some reason, this was an "ah-ha" moment (no, not the Norwegian band). That statement struck me as quite true. Almost depressingly so. It became more depressing when I realized that it wasn't only people I knew that this statement was applicable to, but included me as well. For all our nuances, we seem to largely fit into pre-fab categories. Our experiences also seem to become compartmentalized in the same manner. I think it's just the combination of categories that really makes us individuals, but I would like to think it was more than that. Then again, if that is the case and that is all I have known, I'm pretty happy with many of the personalities I've met through my life... so, it becomes a bit irrelevant. Actually, it becomes a 3am dorm room conversation topic, followed promptly by same-sex experimentation and cramming for the Heidegger exam. Forget I brought it up.